


Lucky F*cks and Angels

by lasergirl



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 14:13:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3450107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasergirl/pseuds/lasergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More good luck. It turns out that Midnight Oil has somewhat lasting side effects after Sousa's accidental exposure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a hot June afternoon and Sousa’s on his way home when it happens. He takes the elevator from the phone company front offices to the stone lobby, pushes his way out to the bustling sidewalk full of regular people heading home from work. The sun is hot on the back of his neck as he makes his way down the block, heading for the subway so he can catch a train back to his apartment. The SSR might pay better than a regular delivery job, but he’s not dumb enough to splurge for a cab unless the weather’s pushing in and his hip gets that ache worked in deep.

The pain’s not that bad today; he’s been on archive work the last couple of days and the way the shelves are set up means he can leave the crutch by the door when he clocks in. Sure, he may not be Fred Astaire, but he’s getting better with the trick leg, he thinks.

He’s taking the stairs one at a time down to the platform when there’s a hot wind at his face, the smell of motor oil and something else, a woman in a smart navy dress with white slashes at the neck. His hand clenches at the railing as smoke burns in front of his eyes. His step falters on the stair.

“Hey watch it, Joe!” There’s someone shoving at his back, bile is rising in this throat and he just comes loose, the hot wind blowing in his eyes and blinding him. His arm comes loose from the cradle of the crutch and clamps onto the throat of the man nearest him. There’s a strength in his fingers that seems both unnatural and yet so right, like his fingernails can cut through the skin into the cartilage and bone underneath. He has never felt so sure of anything, not ever, not even jumping into freezing cold water up to his waist on a bloody beach in Northern France. It doesn’t matter than there’s no pack weighing heavy across his back, no rifle slung against his thigh. It doesn’t matter than there’s hardly any thigh left to sling a rifle against, the aluminum rings against the railing as he lets both his hands claw down against that heat, that sound, that terrible wind…

… and takes a horrible, shuddering breath against the grimy cement, his shoulders wrenched back in their sockets, a bony knee crushing into his shoulder blades. A transit cop is bellowing at him, the words all nonsense. He coughs and chokes out the last of his rage, feeling the heat leach from his body into the rumbling cement. When he catches his next breath it’s with the departure of the train, a bone-deep clatter of iron and steel and screeching of wheels that sound too much like screams.

“Fella, you got it something bad,” the transit cop says under the rattle of the cars, and he hauls Sousa backwards against the wall. At last, something solid presses against his palms and his thighs and Daniel hunches himself into something small and tight and defeated until he can catch his breath. When he finally does speak, it’s with a voice so hoarse and shredded he can barely recognize it as his own:

“Carter. Peggy Carter,” he chokes, scrubbing the spittle away from the corner of his mouth with a dirty fist. “Caledonia 5-5561.”

It’s an eternity before he can find himself again, the tired, awkward body he finds himself in when the hot wind fades and the rage drops from his foaming throat. He’s handcuffed in a small, airless room that smells of aftershave and someone’s old chewing gum. The transit cop opens the door and that cool breath of air ushers her in.

“Peggy,” his voice rasps across her name, ungainly and rough. He tastes blood in the back of his throat.

“I came as soon as I got the call,” she says, and her mouth makes a determined straight line in spite of the lush red cupid’s bow drawn across it. “What happened?”

“I… I don’t know. I was gonna catch a train home, I think I slipped-“

“Tried to choke out a fella’s what it looked like,” the transit cop grunts, but he’s not all hard words. “Underground seems to bring out some bad turns in GI’s.” He thumbs the brim of his cap with a meaty hand. “Lord knows I’ve seen enough of them. Lady, you take this one home in a cab so I don’t hafta file another report, okay?”

“Oh, certainly,” Carter’s at his side as the cuffs are released, pins and needles in his hands when he shakes them out. “I’ve a car waiting outside. Thank you for your concern.”

“Yeah, well,” the transit cop says with a shrug, “For the Service, right? We got ‘em back, we got no choice but to take care of ‘em.”

Sousa can’t speak to her as Peggy gives him back his crutch, as she helps him to his feet and out of the brutal hellmouth of the subway station. The golden light of afternoon has vanished, replaced with a chalky, greyish gloom. There is a car, long and black and low, idling against the curb with the lights switched off. She herds him towards it. His look, quizzical, is easily ignored.

“Get in, Daniel. We can talk about this in the morning.”

He doesn’t argue, knows there’s no point, and when the blackness of the car takes him in he lets his body relax. Sleep can take him down.


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes after the light of morning cracks the grey sky over Manhattan. He’s thirsty, his throat swollen and parched, and grabs for the glass of water set at his bedside. The first mouthful spills across his chin and throat, the rest he guzzles down greedily and barely waits to catch his breath.

He’s in his undershirt, and a bundle of tangled sheets and blankets, and his soft grey wool trousers. His tie is coiled neatly on a nearby chair, his jacket draped across the back. His shirt is conspicuously absent.

Well, it’s nearly the same as when Peggy watched him wake up after being dosed with Stark’s gas, the time he tried to throttle Jack Thompson with his bare hands.

His hands… Sousa flexes his fingers, searching for evidence. There’s subway dirt and grime under his nails, flaring red bruises in bracelets around his wrists.

His tongue is swollen and dry in spite of the quick drink, and the tightness in his throat warns him not to try talking just yet. Sure. But he’s not handcuffed now. He extracts himself from the bedding, throws it to one side and shuffles to his feet. His hip twinges, just to remind him of his injury, but he scowls and forces the sensation away. Water.

His gait is hesitant, moving from furniture to the wall, to the doorframe, maybe there’s a kitchen nearby so he can grab another glass of water. He rounds the door.

“Oh.” There’s a girl, woman, familiar maybe, reading from a furled stack of mimeographed sheets. She calls over her shoulder as she leaves the settee. “Peggy? He’s awake!” She doesn’t approach him, actually, her path takes her further away, behind the tufted leather furniture and the – is that actually a crystal chess set? She brandishes the roll of paper like a weapon. “Sit.”

He does, and then he places the face. “You,” he rasps, “The Griffith.”

“Oh,” and honest to god, the girl, woman, bats her eyelashes at him. “Yeah, that’s me. But you wanna talk to my girl, I think.” She gestures with the mimeos and spins on her heel to exit. What an actress.

“How are you feeling, Daniel?” He swivels on the tufted leather to catch her voice, as Peggy enters the expanse of sitting room. She sets a pitcher of water and a glass down at his knees on an acre of mahogany coffee table.

“Better.” He restrains himself from diving at the pitcher. Instead, he hefts it and pours himself a glass and drinks it, less frantically than before. “Thanks.”

“Before you ask, I’ve called in to Thompson.” She carefully doesn’t say ‘Chief.’ “Neither you nor I are expected at work today.”

“Well that’s a relief.” His voice is still raspy but the edges are coming off. He has another sip of water. “Did you tell him about—“ Sousa doesn’t really know what to say, then. He tries again. “About – me? The subway?”

“He is aware there was an incident but I didn’t give him any details. For all he knows, you slipped on a banana peel.”

“Huh, I wish,” he scoffs. “The headlines would be way better. ‘War Vet Slips Up.’ No one wants to read ‘Cockeyed Crip Goes Bananas.”

Peggy’s mouth turned down in a frown as she shook her head. “I didn’t get the impression that’s what happened. The transit officer said he’s seen former soldiers have the same reactions to the trains.”

“I wasn’t shell-shocked in France, Carter, I got shot. I ride the train every day. It wasn’t that.” He scrubs his filthy hand across his face, feeling suddenly reluctant. He pushes through it. “I felt like I was back in that damned movie house. I got a whiff of something and I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to…” he stops and sighs into his hands, caving forward in defeat. “I want to kill something. Someone.”

Bless her, she doesn’t move an inch, not even to back away from him. “Do you still feel that way?”

“Oh God, no,” Sousa shakes his head. He’s sorted through his scant memories of the event and there’s nothing. “Just right then, it was the only thing I wanted more than anything. Just like at the movie house.” 

“It can’t be Midnight Oil. All the canisters were accounted for and Howard destroyed them.”

“I know.” He rests his head in his hands a while, avoiding her gaze. It feels so much like judgment, like he’s finally cracked up and Peggy’s going to be the one to break the bad news. Sorry, you thought you got out of France just shy a shoe size, but guess what? You’re looney toons just like those poor inmates at the Veterans Hospital upstate. Better pack your bags.

Peggy hums a thought under her breath, ticking off days on her fingers. “It’s been how long since Dr. Ivchenko – Fenhoff – orchestrated the gas release?”

“Twenty-eight days,” Daniel mutters. “Not even a month.”

“The side effects were never studied on surviving human subjects,” Peggy rushes, suddenly energized. “Because there were so few. And those were killed before we knew about Midnight Oil’s existence at all. It could have non-lethal side effects.”

“Huh, non-lethal if you’re outside strangulation distance.”

Peggy gives him a severe look and her voice is hard as iron. “Agent Sousa, might I remind you that unlike most of Midnight Oil’s unwilling test subject, you are still alive. You have retained all of your faculties, your voice and your ability to breathe.” She ticks the positives off on her red-polished fingernails.

“Yeah I’m positively a champ,” he shrugs, but it’s a pretty good kick in the pants. He could be choked dead, or mute. “Okay, so there’s side effects. How long is it gonna last? Should I wear bracelets just in case I crack up in public again?”

“I’ll have to call Howard,” she says matter-of-factly. “And ask Thompson for access to the Firnow file, and cross-reference it with Leviathan’s exposure at the movie house. Maybe there’s something we haven’t looked at yet.”

Sousa swallows, feeling a bubble of panic tamp itself into his throat. “So I’m just laid off? Might as well turn in my badge with the Chief and take up selling pencils.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” and Peggy lays a hand on his shoulder, the first time she’s touched him since putting him the back of the car. “You’re an active partner in this investigation. Who better?”

Her hand is warm on his bare shoulder, he wants to double up, put his hand over hers, cement that momentary feeling into something stronger, but her doesn’t. He sits on his hands and nods.

“Sure. Yeah.” 

Then she’s back to all business. “Of course, you’ll want to bathe and eat before anything else, there’s a bathroom off your suite and the laundry will be back soon. You take care of yourself while I make some telephone calls.” She rises to her feet, gives him one last nod of encouragement. “Don’t worry, Daniel. We can deal with this. We just need to figure out what we’re dealing with.”

Sure. He watches her heels click, all business, out of the sitting room and then he’s alone again.


End file.
